A small space to portray, express, and repurpose.
Thomas Amburn
living in New York
surgery resident at NYU
writings are prose/poetry
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Heavy, in the ground hums the empty clangs —“…dust, is dust, is dust, is dust, is dust, is …” —Until the ragged town is swept away —Until the dust devils come back no more —Until the ghosts can’t find a place to haunt —Until the dust settles back into stone —Until the doldrums lose their…
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A year of rain and ten years of being lost, but flowers still grow under my bed and there’s something that reaches through my window. The criss-cross of my legs, hips in low puddles, I didn’t know how submerged I was, each drop like a dissolved lover pushing through what became such a graceless heart.…
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What if I don’t find love by 40, I turn out to be the oldest one in my friend group to be so seriously single. What if I don’t find love because maybe I truly cannot love someone so much in that way, an ancient joke of settling and co-dependency. I’m 31 and my left…
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What remains will be washed away. Rivers are wild and rush into the fields, digging the ravines scarring the forlorn landscapes. Hills form along the distant edges dug up into their shapes beneath the torrents. Water fills my nose and mouth, there is still no air to be breathed in this drowned world, but I…
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a faded sun and a tree wind blown hair a cup of fruit unsuspecting eye contact and disconnect smile full of teeth hollow unrealness full genuinity glimmers and a hope no more smile less sun more faded the trees sway a sunset far behind breezy clouds passing dusk arrives home is behind
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